


once upon a dream

by intertwingular



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Multi, POC Jacksons, Portuguese Jacksons, Quest-fic, Sleeping Beauty Elements, aka the "sally comes from a family of witches au" that nobody asked for, im making all ur favs poc and u cant stop me thxs, losing around four years of your life bc ur asleep, nobody is kissing anyone while they're asleep though, the great prophecy still manages to screw with percy even when he's asleep, u think im joking; i wish i was
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-07 01:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13423509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intertwingular/pseuds/intertwingular
Summary: there’s no force in the universe stronger than a mother’s love and, well – sally jackson loves fiercer than most.(camp half blood is on the verge of war; and annabeth chase, daughter of athena, is chosen to spearhead a quest to find the missing key to it all – lost to the gods and time, four years ago.so seek what was lost. find the missing son – and most of all, keep your wits about you, for nothing is as simple as it seems with the divine.)





	1. prologue, part one: mugwort & birch.

**Author's Note:**

> holds my head in my hands guys its four days before midterms and. here. here i am. fuck. 
> 
> anyways, i'm not even sure _what_ to tag this, but yeah. sleeping beauty ft. portuguese witchcraft and a _lot_ of made up lore is kind of the gist of it. 
> 
> for now, enjoy!

There are forces far mightier than the gods. Certainly, they are few and far between but – they linger and lurk from a time before creation. 

Sally Jackson meets a handsome man with eyes like the fathomless sea, by her hometown in Brazil, a month before the winter equinox, the shortest day of the year. She learns that he kisses as if he were drowning. 

A month later, she spends that night with him, huddled against the winter chill in her ramshackle rental cabin in Montauk. He runs far warmer than the winter sea, shows far more affection than that sea ever showed her. (or perhaps that is a cruelty; because Sally only learned to swim after the sea beat against her, down and down again until the breath was stolen from her lungs, and she forced herself to learn to swim, to fight against the tide and – Sally knows that nothing worthwhile has ever been learned through kindness and a gentle touch.) He does not kill spiders – instead, cradles them gently in his sun-weathered palms and lets them scuttle away into the night. 

(as she welcomes him back into bed, Sally wonders if it was perhaps crueler to let them go; if it would have been kinder to kill them quickly, rather than let them die slowly in the unforgiving cold.) 

They spend another week together. She takes him down to the boardwalk, and tells him what it would be like beneath the summer sun, when the boardwalk is packed with children and families and couples and life. When the vendors set up their wares, call for people to play their rigged games, and children beg their parents for ice cream or other extremely unhealthy treats. He nods and smiles and swivels his head to look at the desolate boardwalk, but really, Sally knows that he’s watching her, _always,_ from the corners of his eyes. 

(how large she feels, having the attention of a god all for her own, how humbling to have that attention turned on her like a spotlight seeking some larger-than-life star.)

On the last day of their week together, Poseidon cups her face in his hands and says, “I have to go.” There is genuine sorrow in his eyes, and Sally can feel the slight tremble in his sturdy wrists, in his hands. She has given away a part of her, but Mãe always told her daughters that love is always infinite. No matter how much she gives, Sally knows that there will always be more. 

So she smiles, wry and tentatively bittersweet. “I know,” Sally says. “Gods have other duties, Poseidon. I know.” His true name rolls off her tongue like silk; smooth and unburdened – it feels awfully liberating to give up her pretense. 

He looks so shocked, those beautiful sea-glass eyes widening for the first time since she’s known him.

“How did you – ” 

Sally smiles, and cups his cheek in turn. “Divinity is hard to hide from those who can See, my dear.” She presses a kiss to his scruffy cheek, runs a hand down the front of his Henley, smoothing wrinkles as she goes. 

“Sally,” he says, and it sounds reverent, like a prayer. “Come to Atlantis – come back with me.” 

“Ask me again later,” she murmurs. “When I’m not so heartbroken from your leaving.” 

Poseidon looks at her, as if seeing her for the first time. He kisses her sweetly, as if she doesn’t already know that this is the last time, and dives into the frigid winter sea. 

He doesn’t even make a splash as he goes.

* * *

**( a spell for new beginnings: one young birch branch, and two bundles of mugwort. peel your birch bark, and burn the stick to cleanse the air. )**

* * *

Poseidon asks her, time and time again, and time and time again, Sally says no. Maybe once she would have said yes, maybe once that lure would have caught her – but not now. 

It’s summer in Montauk, and Sally cradles her newborn son in her arms. He has a tuft of ink dark hair, and darling baby-blue eyes, but Sally has a feeling that once the blue fades, he’ll have a sea-glass green. Just like his father. 

She can already trace the places where Poseidon bleeds – will bleed – through. He’s with her, in Percy’s eyes and jaw and hair – but she knows that his nose is hers. The barely there freckles that threaten to pop up with the strong August sun. The color of his skin, like the dulce de leche cakes in Avozinha’s bakery – those are all hers, the places where she bleeds through, in between the places that are Poseidon’s, and the places that are neither him nor her. 

She tucks him against her bosom, rocks him back and forth in her arms and prays to gods that are not Poseidon and his own. The monsters will come for him – this Sally knows. They will come, and try as she might, her son will not be safe. 

Percy babbles in his sleep, waving a small arm around, and Sally holds him closer. Like proximity will quiet the howling divinity in his blood, so bright and golden that it blinds her. 

She rocks him back and forth in her arms, and decides that it’s high time she called Avozinha again.

* * *

**( shred your bark, and grind your mugwort in a mortar and pestle until it forms a pulp. slowly mix in your birch bark, and cover overnight. )**

* * *

Because the thing was, that Sally Jackson wasn’t born into divine blood, nothing so fancy nor flashy – but the most powerful forces are hardly ever as such. Sally Jackson was born into the blood of witches, a coven as old as time itself, and then even older still. 

“I knew you would return,” is Avozinha’s creaky greeting. She’s far too old to be Sally’s grandmother, but Avozinha has been Matriarch for longer than Sally or her mother, or her mother’s mother. They say that she is their coven’s solitary bastion, older than even the howling and roiling oceans back home in Brazil. 

“A vision?” Sally asks, stitching together a sachet of vervain, cinnamon and sage. The smooth cotton is the same shade as the summer sea, rippling through sea foam and the iridescence of the sun atop the waves. “Or just a hunch?” 

Avozinha snorts. In the background, Sally can hear the whirr of her stand mixer, and Cortes’ high-pitched Portuguese. “Both, _querida._ You and I both know that the arts don’t work that way.” 

Percy burbles in his crib, and Sally sets the sachet and her needle down, picking him up from the wooden crib. Runes, in an ancient language lost to time and the Old Ones, line the ash wood crib. Mãe had shipped it all the way from Salvador to New York City; and the costs had been _enormous._

(“Can’t pay shipping fees with magic, _neném,_ ” Mãe had laughed over the phone. “But don’t worry. Avozinha and I have you covered for this time.”) 

“I know, I know,” Sally murmurs. Percy places a chubby hand on her cheek, patting her amusedly. She tucks the phone in the crook of her neck, and blows a raspberry on his covered belly button. “ _Bom dia, neném,_ ” she coos, bouncing him to the tune of Avozinha’s wheezing laughter. “Avozinha, look who’s awake!” Sally picks up one of Percy’s arms, waving at the ceiling – if Avozinha is scrying, she’ll see them. 

“I see, _querida – Cortes! ¿Por qué diabos você está fazendo?_ ” Avozinha screeches through the phone. 

Sally laughs, and sets the phone down, reaching for the sachet. “Let’s not listen to Avozinha, right, _neném_?” 

Percy reaches for the sachet, giggling. Sally presses her head to his stomach, and sighs. Over the phone, Avozinha growls at Cortes – and Sally pities the Matriarch’s apprentice. 

“ _Neném,_ what am I going to do?” She asks. Percy just burbles, and gums at her hair. She sighs and pulls him closer to her – this is her son, the only son of the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter and an ancient god. Danger lurks around every corner for Percy, and while Sally cannot protect him from them now, she will be able to soon. 

For now, she blows another raspberry on her baby boy’s clothed tummy, and holds him close as he laughs and claps. “I’ll be strong enough for the both of us, _neném._ But you’ve got to stay with me, alright?”


	2. prologue, part two: we douse ourselves in something holy and hope that we are clean.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "this is the easiest-hardest thing sally knows she will ever do. her baby boy looks at her, all sea-glass green eyes, the upward tick of his nose, freckles splashed across his cheeks like little kisses from a day spent in the sun, and all sally can think is: _i'm sorry. i'm sorry. forgive me, percy. please, forgive me._ there is nothing but _trust_ in those eyes, steady and unwavering, and all she can think about is how she does not deserve it. 
> 
> she presses the sachet into his hands. the cotton is still soft, despite being nearly twelve years old now, and the colors are still those of the summer sea by salvador's shores. “sleep well,” is the last thing she says to her son, as his eyes flutter shut."
> 
> in which desperate times truly make for desperate measures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. here we are. a day later.  
> ahsjgdahjsdasd fuck!! i really did mean to post this on friday, so i could _try_ and keep a weekly schedule, but i realized quickly enough that i really really wanted to get the second chapter out asap. so _anyways._ this is it! the conclusion of the paralogues. we'll be going through a four year time skip - little less, really - after this, so we can follow annabeth on her quest to locate the lost son. 
> 
> so, enjoy!

**T-MINUS FOUR YEARS UNTIL THE QUEST FOR THE LOST SON.**

_“He’s twelve, you say?”_

Sally cradles the phone in between her shoulder and head, hip checking a drawer shut in the tiny kitchen. “Mhm, Avozinha. Just turned twelve today!” 

Avozinha laughs creakily, and through the connection, Sally can hear the Matriarch begin to work her hand whisk through a bowl batter. _“Your mother wishes that you’d brought him to Salvador, Sally. He’s your only son, after all – ”_

“And the only son of the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter holds immense power; _yes,_ Avozinha, I know.” She cracks open three eggs over the blue mixing bowl. “But I can’t. Money is tight, and Gabe won’t let me go. Maybe when he’s eighteen.” 

_“If he was a daughter, you’d bring him for his_ quinceañera,” Avozinha says. Disapproval leaks through every word. _“Sally, what are you doing with this…Gabe?”_ She spits out Gabe’s name like it’s something dirty and – well, that’s another part of Avozinha that reminds her so much of Percy. 

“It’s to protect Percy, Avozinha.” She places the whisk down, and suddenly, she feels _exhausted._ This is the only way to truly protect her son, sans locking him away completely. But it’s not a failsafe, Sally _knows._ He’s getting older and more powerful each day. 

_“You have to send him there,”_ Poseidon had warned her. _“Your attachment could kill him, Sally.”_

He’d gotten down and begged, and Sally had turned him away. 

_“Sally.”_

She rakes a hand through her hair, through the newly sprouted grays and her already there brown. “I _know_ , Avozinha – _I know._ But this, the coffin – I can’t.” 

Avozinha sighs through the phone. “ _Sally, you must. There’s no other way to truly protect him. The Old Ones will watch over him while he sleeps, until he is safe._ ”

Sally looks down at the batter of Percy’s birthday cake; at the spattering of blue food coloring amidst the almost-mixed flour. “…and the Old Ones have told you that this is the only way?” 

“ _The only way,_ querida. _I wish there was another._ ” 

She begins to whisk the batter together again. “Give me one week, Avozinha – before you bring Mãe and my sisters down to New York. One more week with my son.”  
_“One week, Sally. And then We are coming.”_

Avozinha leaves her on the dial tone, and Sally presses her forehead to the kitchen countertop, blinking back hot tears. _The only way,_ she thinks desperately. _Percy, I’m sorry, but this is the only way._

She picks herself up, reassembles the pieces, and begins to whisk the batter together again.

* * *

Percy is twelve, but he feels a lot older. He stares blankly at the old landline in their shitty apartment, not the one Mamãe and him had shared before Gabe, as the dial tone echoes around him, monotone and grating. The business card Grover had given him on the sputtering Greyhound bus hangs loosely between his fingers and – it _stings._ Grover hadn’t picked up the phone, hadn’t texted, hadn’t even written a letter, and it hurts more than Percy likes to admit. 

It hurts, thinking that he’d finally, _finally_ made a friend this year, the kind that would stick around after the inevitable, yearly expulsion – and in the end, Grover hadn’t been any better than any of the others. 

_Happy Birthday to me, _Percy thinks bitterly. It shouldn’t hurt. It does. But this only serves to cement the hard truth; Percy only _needs_ Mamãe. She’s the only constant, the only _good_ thing someone like Percy gets to have, amidst Gabe and his cronies, his deadbeat dad, supposedly “dead at sea,” and so-called friends who never pick up calls, don’t write and don’t _care.___

“Percy?” 

He turns around. Mamãe stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, whisk in hand. Sunlight streams in through the dirty windows, casting her in a honey-warm light, and something raging and sharp mellows in Percy. She smiles, and Percy can see the places where crow’s feet are just beginning to form, around the corners of her blue eyes and the curve of her smile. “Hey, _neném_ ,” she coos, voice impossibly warm, and Mamãe meets him halfway, already pulling him into a hug. 

It’s so warm. Percy could cry – _wants_ to cry, but instead he buries his face into her chest, and lets the batter drip off the whisk and into his hair. 

“What’s wrong?” She asks. Percy doesn’t know how to tell her, doesn’t want to tell her, because he knows Mamãe will worry, as she always does, so instead he shakes his head and snuffles wetly into her chest. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.” He feels fingers carding through his hair, and the weight of her chin as it comes to rest atop his unruly curls. “Why don’t you come help me finish off the cake? I have exciting news to tell you anyways. Might as well get this into the oven while we’re at it, right?” 

Percy really doesn’t want to pull away, but he’s also starving in the way most pre-teen – teenage boys are wont to be. There’s nothing better than Mamãe’s cakes, and she makes them so rarely that he’s aware that he tends to descend on them like a starving man. At least he’s honest about it. 

“Yeah, okay,” he mutters, pulling away. His forelocks are dyed blue with cake batter now, and Mamãe shakes her head at it, laughing. Percy bats her hand away jokingly, and reaches up to scrape the batter from his hair. 

“Don’t eat that!” Mamãe chides. “I’m not letting you lick the bowl if you do.” 

Fingers halfway into his mouth, Percy sticks his tongue out at her, wiping them on his already grass-stained jeans. “Can I lick the bowl _and_ the whisk?”

Mamãe rolls her eyes at him, corralling him into the kitchen. “Don’t push your luck, _neném._ ” She points the whisk at him, bared like the gleaming point of a fencing sabre, as blinding in their dingy kitchen as it was in Yancy Academy’s lower gym. “Come on, help me portion the batter into the cake pans, and we’ll talk.”

Percy bends down, unfolding his green and white striped apron from beneath the pristine table mats Mamãe had gotten from her mother when she’d packed up and left Brazil behind, tying it around his waist. “So,” he asks, ladling cobalt blue cake batter into nine-inch pans, “what’s the news?” Behind them, their rickety, fire-hazard of an oven is rattling as it preheats; part of Percy thinks he should be nervous, but the rest just keeps a careful eye on it and resolves to tell Mamãe to buy a fire deterrent the next time they’re at Home Depot for more duct tape. 

“Do you remember Avó and Avozinha?” She sounds a little tentative, and out the corner of his eyes, Percy can see how she wrings the dishtowel a little harder than necessary, smearing bright blue batter across her sunkissed forearms. 

“Granny?” Percy taps the batter on the kitchen counter and turns around to check on the oven. “Yeah.” He remembers Mamãe’s mother, the one time they’d come to New York to visit for Percy’s birthday. Granny had been an odd presence, one that smelt of the sea and with a presence twice as strong. “Are they coming up to the city again?”

“Mhm,” Mamãe hums, whisking the pans away. She pushes them into the belly of the oven, and together they warily eye the old dragon of an oven, waiting for signs of smoke or impending fire. 

“We should get a fire extinguisher,” Percy tells her. 

Mamãe just shakes her head and hip checks the cantankerous old thing fondly. “We’ll see,” she says, “but I think he’s got a few years left in him yet.” 

Percy isn’t quite as confident in the Dragon as she is, but he shrugs, washing his hands in the kitchen sink. The batter runs off his hands in blue clumps, watery and fading, running down into the drain like watercolors down a canvas. The melancholy is returning, he realizes, despite Mamãe’s warm presence behind him, and the scent of cake beginning to bake in the old oven. 

“Grover’s not coming today,” he mutters, wiping them dry on his jeans. “He’s…busy. Family issues – can’t make it in time.”

Mamãe purses her lips, sighing. “Well, I guess we’re going to just eat this cake together then. What do you think?” She turns to him, and Percy kind of hates the sad gleam in her eyes. “Think we can eat it all between the two of us?” 

Percy rolls his eyes. “Maybe a slice or two each before Gabe and his troupe get their flippers on it, yeah.” _Flippers._ Percy likes that analogy – Gabe’s been looking more and more walrus-like as the days go by, and while Eddie kind of looks more like a distressed bird than anything, the opportunity to mock Gabe is, as usual, too good to give up.

“ _Percy_ ,” Mamãe warns – though she sounds more resigned than angry at this point. “Don’t say that about Gabe. He’s – ” 

“You _know_ there’s no excuse for his bullshit!” It bursts out of Percy with all the force of a popped balloon, and he hates this, Mamãe’s constant excuses for Gabe’s shitty _everything_. He’s a waste of space, a no-good _filho da puta_ , and Percy _hates_ that Mamãe felt that she had to turn to him to support the two of them. 

Maybe the money would’ve been tighter without Gabe, but Percy’s never cared about that. They would have found a way to make it work. Jacksons always did. 

“Perseus Jackson, _language!_ ” They’re both yelling now. Percy hates this – and he knows she does too. “ _Meu Deus_ ,” she sighs, running a hand down her face. “I don’t want to fight about this today, _neném._ It’s your birthday. Avó and Avozinha are coming down with my sisters next week. Let’s talk about Gabe later, okay?” 

_And school,_ she doesn’t say. Percy doesn’t know why she always has to send him away, away from home where he can protect her from Gabe, but maybe – maybe this year she’ll let him stay at home. Maybe this year won’t be as miserable. 

“Okay,” he mutters, pushing his bangs out from his eyes. 

Mamãe ruffles his hair fondly, and sighs, tension leaving with her breath. “Okay!” She claps her hands together. “Go take a shower, Percy. We’ll frost the cake, stick it in the fridge, and start dinner once you don’t smell like subway and taxi exhaust, okay?” 

Percy smiles at her. “Got it.” _Maybe, not the_ worst _birthday._ He folds his apron away, and heads down the short corridor to take a shower.

* * *

Something like apprehension rises in Sally’s stomach as she clutches Percy’s shoulders outside the terminal in JFK. Her son, to his credit, doesn’t squirm or fidget – as hard as she knows that tends to be for him – surveying the crowd for a face Sally knows he barely remembers.

Gods, sometimes when she looks at him, Sally isn’t sure whether or not she’s looking at a child or a man. He’s caught somewhere in between the two, nebulous and changing, having grown up too fast, and somehow, not at all. There are lines between his brows from frowning too much, callouses on his palms from gripping the handles of his secondhand bike too hard while running the paper route; but his hair is still downy and tufting, and not all of his baby teeth have fallen out. 

She sighs and smooths down the tuft of his hair. What an exercise in paradoxes they make, the two of them – mother and son, protected and protector. A witch and the son of a god – they are regular irregularities, and Sally can feel the pent up tension pushing against the tide, fit to burst. 

Something is going to give – and it’s only a matter of _when_ now. And that, Sally supposes, is why they're here now, waiting for whoever Avozinha drags with her to New York City. 

“Oh! Is that her?” Percy speaks up suddenly, shocking Sally from her reverie. She looks up, following her son’s finger to the gaggle of women who have just exited the terminal. Two young girls, hair plaited to the side, tied with neat ribbons and identical in all but eye color. An older woman, with crow’s feet and smile lines, her mousey brown hair shot with gray and white, and a woman not much older than Sally, in a pantsuit and carrying several suitcases. Lastly, a figure in a clean white shawl, covered from head to toe in clothing, an ornate cane holding their weight up. 

Sally’s heart jumps into her throat – she knows them as she knows her own limbs. Madelena, third youngest of their seven and her two daughters, Isolde and Igraine, Mãe, with her thick-soled gardening boots, and smile-lined face – and Avozinha, shawled as always, gnarled hands clasped over the wood-carved head of her staff.  
She wants to run to them, wants to bury her face into Mãe’s chest like a little girl again, wants to coo at her twin nieces and ask after Madelena’s scatter-brained husband – but she simply smooths Percy’s hair down again, and smiles. 

“That’s them,” she says, nudging him forwards. “Want to go say hi?”

Percy tilts his head up to scowl at her. “I’m not a little kid,” he complains. “You don’t have to _prompt_ me, Mamãe.” Still, he shakes his head at her and starts off towards Avozinha and the others. “But yeah. I’ll bring them over here.”

Sally raises an amused eyebrow at him and tucks a flyaway hair back behind her ear. “Sure thing, Percy. Hurry back, and don’t shove the pedestrians too hard.” 

Percy sticks his tongue out at her, laughter dancing across his eyes. “If they’re tourists, they deserve it.” 

She shakes her head at him as he vanishes into the crowd. New Yorkers and their omnipresent mockery of tourists. Sally will never understand it, but the breath of the city runs through Percy’s veins – Percy who can navigate the subways without a glance towards a map, Percy who hails down cabs with a whistle shrill enough to make Sally deaf. She’s still a Salvador girl at heart, no matter where she lives now. 

But she keeps her eyes on him, her not-so-little-anymore boy, as he weaves through the crowds with ease, their motley little family in tow. The twins take to him easily, it seems, clutching at his hands, little Isolde already sitting on Percy’s back. Madelena looks amused at this, and as her eyes catch Sally’s from across the terminal, she shakes her head fondly and mouths _he’s just like you._

Sally’s heart is fit to burst. She’s missed this, this easy companionship that comes from years of furtive glances across the dinner table while Mãe and Pai argue in the kitchen. Madelena grins at her, winking quietly as Mãe smothers Percy in a hug. 

“It’s been a while, huh?” She says, handing two suitcases over to Sally. “It’s good to see you again, irmãzinha.” 

Sally smiles, but there’s a heavy atmosphere between them, this tension that lingers and stays between them, taught and unmoving. “I wish it were under better conditions,” Sally replies, and the sad look Madelena gives her could make her cry. 

Sally’s stronger than that, though. She’s made of sterner stuff, lived through years of toil training under Avozinha and her mother, lived through Gabe, raised Percy – Sally _knows_ that she can survive this too. 

She just wishes that it hadn’t come to this.

“I know,” Madelena replies, regret heavy in her voice. She too, is looking at their children, twin girls in perfect braids, haranguing poor Percy as he tries to juggle both their requests at once. “I know.”

* * *

They spend one last day together – one last, shining day – out on Montauk’s shores, where the sun is burningly warm, and when Sally breathes in the scent of the sea, it takes her back to Salvador and Poseidon. Percy takes to being a cousin-cum-older brother with surprising ease, and that too, tugs at Sally’s heartstrings. 

All these years they will deprive of him, the sheer impact of what this will cost them hits her like an oncoming train. Percy will grow up ensconced in glass, a fairy tale and legend brought to life. He will breathe and grow and be in that coffin, buried where none can ever hope to find him – but he won’t _live_. Sally will deprive him of that, years of high school and potential friends, a whole life of what-ifs and what-could-have-beens, gone in an instant.

There is something inherently cruel about that. 

But that night, Avozinha presses the butt of her cane to the cool, shimmering glass of the shrunken coffin, and it grows, larger and larger beneath the setting sun. It throws off light, iridescent and gleaming, a beautiful tomb for Sally’s baby boy. 

“Percy?” Sally calls – there is he, out by the bonfire, features cast into stark relief by the flickering flames. Salt water has crusted in his hair, drying it in a near-untamable wave, and the freckles dotting constellations across his nose and cheeks stretch as he smiles at her, pulling away from Isolde and Igraine with a soft word to both girls. 

“Yeah?” He asks, running over. His hands are in his pockets, swim trunks still damp, still covered in sand. His feet are bare, and Sally can see a hint of a sunburn where the sunscreen did not take, on his left ankle. She drinks him in like a desperate woman, this last image of her baby boy, vibrant and living.

She wants to tell him to run from this. She knows that if she wants him to survive, she cannot. So she smiles at Percy, and smooths down his hair, as futile of a move as it is. 

“What’s the matter?” 

Sally laughs, and it feels like choking. “Nothing much. C’mere, I have a present for you, _neném._

This is the easiest-hardest thing Sally knows she will ever do. Her baby boy looks at her, all sea-glass green eyes, the upward tick of his nose, freckles splashed across his cheeks like little kisses from a day spent in the sun, and all Sally can think is: _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Forgive me, Percy. Please, forgive me._ There is nothing but _trust_ in those eyes, steady and unwavering, and all she can think about is how she does not deserve it. 

She presses the sachet into his hands. The cotton is still soft, despite being nearly twelve years old now, and the colors are still those of the summer sea by Salvador's shores. “Sleep well,” is the last thing she says to her son, as his eyes flutter shut.

He falls backwards, into her arms, form limp and prone. Percy is still all elbows and knees, a skinny little thing despite how much Sally tries to feed him. He feels like a pillow in her arms, weight negligible. Despite that, her arms still tremble, and she pressed him to her chest, a desperate, ugly sob forcing its way out from the tightness in her heart. 

“Time to let him sleep, _querida,_ ” Avozinha says. Her gnarled hand reaches out, grasping Sally by the shoulder. “Time to let him go.” 

They take him from her arms, Avozhina, Madelena and Mãe, cradling him gently in their own. Madelena places him in their glittering glass tomb, cushioning his head on a pillow of lavender and poppy. He looks peaceful like this, the crease between his eyebrows smoothed for once, eyes closed and lips silent. 

He looks _dead_ like this, her little boy. Unmoving. Unspeaking – all things that her hindbrain tells her he should not be. There is a tragedy in this moment, this quiet snuffing of her son’s life, and as Sally watches her coven seal the glass coffin shut, she desperate reassures herself that this – this was the only way. 

She doesn’t think she can live with herself if she realizes that maybe, maybe it wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick terminology rundown since i was an idiot and didn't include it the first time: 
> 
> mae means "mother" in portuguese. so does mamae, but mamae is closer to mom/mommy, whereas mae is more akin to mother. pai is "father" & irmazinha is "little sister"! avozinha means "grandmother" but i'm using it to mean something closer to "matriarch" than anything. nenem means baby, and querida means sweetheart. filho de puta is son of a bitch (lol). 
> 
> if i didn't make it clear enough - sally is brazilian! well. half brazilian. her father is from norway, hence the last name "jackson," but sally is a lot closer to her brazilian roots, having grown up in salvador. (confused?? yeah there's a salvador in basically every latin american country. i'm confused too.) she's also descended from a long line of witches, the first in their line being the woman who she calls "avozinha" currently. as for the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, it just means that sally tends to be much more magically powerful than the rest of her sisters, considering that seven is a powerful number in magic. and percy is even more powerful because he's the firstborn son of a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. 
> 
> anyWAYS this an was long. super long. as usual! please leave kudos if you liked it, and even better, drop a review if you liked it to so i can know what was good/what was shitty. 
> 
> thanks! also, you can find me on my [tumblr,](shangyang.tumblr.com) as usual.


	3. chapter one: yeah the gods have kids, and those kids have issues.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No,_ Poseidon wants to scream. _No, no I would have_ known, _I would have felt it – Sally._ He wants to rage and destroy, because that little life is _gone_ , Poseidon’s little mortal boy, all bright smiles with crooked teeth and freckles like speckles on a seashell. Poseidon has had hundreds of demigods, fathered great men like Theseus and Neruda – a warrior king, intelligent and brave, a poet, soft and unyielding, both with the unforgiving beat of the tide within the same – but this death hits him the hardest. Poseidon had loved Percy, loved him desperately, despite how little he had ever really seen Percy face to face. 
> 
> the quest for the missing son begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have given up on a consistent posting schedule, so here this is. we've finally begun the quest and i'm _excited_. 
> 
> chapter title is from the lightning thief musical, which is, by the way, absolutely wonderful - so if you haven't listened to it, you absolutely NEED to. i'll link a playlist after the chapter. 
> 
> enjoy!

**FOUR YEARS LATER**

Annabeth Chase has never left Camp grounds – aside from the yearly trips to Mount Olympus the longest-lived campers take. But this – this is something urgent, and so Chiron and Argus herd all the cabin leaders onto the strawberry van too small to hold seven teenagers and a man in a wheelchair. 

Katie Gardner’s elbow is in her side, and next to her Grover is stress eating. She wants to know where all that tin and aluminum goes, but knows better than to actually ask. 

“Grover,” she says, and watches as the satyr startles at the sound of his name cutting through the ambient chatter of the crowded van. “Do you know what’s going on?”

One by one, the head campers turn to look at the satyr, and out from the corner of her eye, Annabeth catches the brief flash of amusement that makes its way across Chiron’s tired features. Grover, for his part, looks like a cornered animal, cowing beneath the combined weight of all their gazes – and this isn’t unexpected. Cabin leaders are the most powerful of their siblings, absolute in their power and weight of word. They are the oldest, the mot experienced; even if it isn’t in the way Annabeth wishes. 

Grover takes of his rasta cap, worrying the dingy fabric between his hands, a habit he’s had since he led their unlikely quartet over Half Blood Hill and they – they – she can’t even _think_ about it. “I…I do,” he admits, and he voice is painfully small. 

“Tell us,” Annabeth demands. There’s _always, always_ information missing, something always goes wrong because they don’t know the whole picture and Annabeth is sick of it. Sick of losing people because their parents can’t seem to trust them with the whole picture. “Grover, what’s going on? It’s past the winter equinox. Why are we going to Olympus?” 

“I can’t – I can’t tell you guys.” Grover shoots a nervous look at Chiron, who clasps his hands in his blanket-covered lap, setting his book down as well. “C-Chiron?”

“Annabeth,” Chiron says. “Not now, dear girl. All will be explained later.” There’s apprehension, Annabeth thinks, in his eyes. She’ll never know – Annabeth can never read people as well as she does books. People aren’t math equations; they never have easy answers, and for however Annabeth loves her younger siblings, she knows a part of her hates it too. 

Later. It’s _always_ later. Annabeth has lived with a lifetime of laters – you can leave camp on a quest _later,_ someone will come _later_ , Annabeth, I have to help with the twins, I’ll play with you _later_ , we’ll come get you _later_ , Annabeth, you can’t come with us now – _what’s one more,_ she thinks, and the thought is lemon-bitter to the taste. 

She crosses her arms, a shield across her chest, and tilts her head back until it hits the seat, and briefly, desperately wishes that Luke were here, that he hadn’t gone missing years ago – that she wasn’t alone, wholly and truly. 

Selina Beauregard catches her eye from across the cramped van, and knowingly, offers her a sad smile. Charles Beckendorf slings an arm around Selina’s slight shoulders and nods at Annabeth, before tucking his face into his girlfriend’s neck. 

Something pangs in Annabeth’s chest. She tells herself it’s just that the underwire of her bra is uncomfortable, unfamiliar pressure where she’s normally used to a sports bra, Katie Gardner’s elbow in her side – anything but the truth.

* * *

Poseidon has not been able to see his son in nearly four years. He searches the seas for Percy’s familiar spark, for that soft laugh, his little son’s voice – _anything_. Poseidon searches like a man possessed for his son – and for Sally. Sally who does not live in New York anymore, finally gone from that disgusting mortal she called husband, who does not bake cakes for her son anymore, confectionaries in cobalt blue and all the shades she can get her hands on. 

Sally, who does not muss their son’s hair with one hand, who does not tell him made-up stories of the father Poseidon could have never hoped to be. Sally, who Poseidon has _found_ , by Salvador’s salty shores, feet bare, lingering in the low tide. 

“Sally,” he says, and it sounds more like a low keen, sad and pleading. “Sally, _where is he_? Where is my son, Sally – ” He’s begging at that point, a god eons old, all the power of this sea and countless more at his command, but Poseidon has always felt mortal beside Sally, Sally, the only mortal with True Sight Poseidon has met since Medusa. 

“He’s _not your son._ ” It bursts from her like the sudden crack of a whip, and Poseidon looks up from her feet and the frothy sea, to Sally’s face, tired and worn. “He’s mine, Poseidon,” she whispers, and her voice is trembling. “And he’s _gone._ ” 

_No,_ Poseidon wants to scream. _No, no I would have_ known, _I would have felt it – Sally._ He wants to rage and destroy, because that little life is _gone_ , Poseidon’s little mortal boy, all bright smiles with crooked teeth and freckles like speckles on a seashell. Poseidon has had hundreds of demigods, fathered great men like Theseus and Neruda – a warrior king, intelligent and brave, a poet, soft and unyielding, both with the unforgiving beat of the tide within the same – but this death hits him the hardest. Poseidon had loved Percy, loved him desperately, despite how little he had ever really seen Percy face to face. 

“Don’t lie to the boy, _querida_ ,” someone calls. Sally and Poseidon’s heads rise in tandem, Sally’s eyes widening in recognition. But Poseidon is left confused, watching as Sally rises to meet this old figure in a white shawl. 

“Who is – ”

The woman interrupts him, elaborate cane beat suddenly against the rocks lining the seashore. “Look me in the eye, boy,” she says, and on instinct, Poseidon lifts his gaze to meet hers and – stops. A chill runs down his spine. 

Her face is young, and then old, and then young again, something unfathomable and unknowable, and suddenly Poseidon is reminded of the three Fates. There is an eternity in her eyes, and when he looks at her, he knows that she knows him. He feels exposed beneath her, eagle-spread and picked open, in a way Poseidon can so rarely remember feeling. 

“Avozinha,” Sally begins, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. 

“Quiet, _querida,_ ” the woman commands. “You. Poseidon.”

“Yes,” Poseidon replies. “Me.” He doesn’t know what she wants, but she looks at him and he gets the sensation that she knows what he wants. 

“I am old,” she says. “So call me sentimental for telling you this. Your son is not dead, young god – he is hidden, safe from oncoming danger. You would risk that?” 

Poseidon hates the answer he knows has to give her. “Yes,” he grits out. “I have to. The world depends on my son – and I hate that.” There is a burning in his chest, a desperate need to tell her that this – this is the _last_ thing Poseidon would have ever wished for Percy. “I would not put him in more danger if it wasn’t necessary.” 

Sally lets out a choked noise, and Poseidon watches as she collapses into herself, face buried in her hands. “ – I’m sorry,” she gasps out, fat tears plopping onto the sand from between her fingers. “ _Gods_ , I’m sorry, there wasn’t another choice, please believe me, _there wasn’t another option._ ” 

The ichor in Poseidon’s veins turns to ice. “Sally, Sally what do you _mean_?” He reaches out, grasps her by the shoulders, and panic makes him reckless, and she only cries more, sobs turning to wails. Poseidon’s voice reaches a fever pitch. “Sally, Sally _where is Percy_? Sally, _where is my **son**_?” 

“ ** _Hidden._** ” The woman speaks again, staring at the tragic picture they make with unimpressed eyes. “Were you not listening to me, young god?” 

“Hidden where.” It’s not a question. Fear and panic has turned Poseidon to stone, like looking straight into Medusa’s eyes. “Hidden. Where.” 

“If you seek him so desperately, send someone to search for him.” The woman leans heavily on her ornate cane, and smiles at him, terrifying and sharp-toothed. “Your Oracle has yet to lead you wrong, no?” 

It dawns on Poseidon slowly, and as Sally’s cries quiet, so does the roaring of the waves in Poseidon’s mind. “You are asking me to call for a quest?” 

“Not ask,” the woman corrects him. “I am _telling_ you, young god, if you ever wish to see your son and avert this danger, you _must_ call a quest. The Old Ones have him, safe in their embrace, and not even I know where they have taken him.” She smiles, this time a wry quirk of her full and cracked lips. “He is much beloved by Them. They will guard him furiously.” 

Poseidon lets go of Sally’s shoulders, and habitually smooths her frayed and frizzed hair back, and for a moment, they are together in Montauk, waiting for the dawn to come and chase away the night. “We will risk it,” he says. “I will return him home.” 

Sally looks at him, eyes rimmed in red, and breathes. “Your magic won’t be enough,” she warns, and her voice still trembles. “Here.” She presses a silver ring into Poseidon’s hand, etched in runes he does not recognize, a sprig of soft, clustered flowers tied around the ring. “A charm, for luck and protection. Silver, for warding and meadowsweet for luck.” 

“Thank you,” Poseidon murmurs, and tucks the ring into the breast pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. “I swear Sally, I’ll bring him home.” _To you_ , he doesn’t say. They don’t need the reminder that Percy will never truly have his father. 

Sally smiles at him, bitter and watery. “I don’t know if I want you to,” is all she says before Poseidon vanishes into the sea-borne mist.

* * *

The elevator ride up to Mount Olympus feels like an eternity and a half. There’s not a lot of them, but the Empire State Building’s elevator is small enough that they have to travel in two groups – especially considering Chiron’s wheelchair. 

Annabeth rides up with the second group; it’s just her, Chiron, Grover and Connor Stoll. The tension between them is thick enough to need a serrated blade to cut through it, and Grover fidgets nervously the entire time, worry broadcasted plainly across his face. 

Chiron is still reading his book. Connor Stoll looks like he’d rather have put up with Katie Gardner’s pointy, pointy elbows and shrill voice than be here, miring in the tension and anger with them. 

On the other hand, Annabeth can practically _feel_ herself trembling with anticipation. Something in the very marrow of her bones is telling her that something _huge_ is in the works, something world-shattering, life-changing is in the works, and although Annabeth is already sixteen, she feels a bit like that eight-year-old girl again, learning that the gods are _real_ and finding a family of her own. 

The doors open with a ding, and Annabeth rushes out – though whether her hurry to leave the elevator is a product of her restlessness or the thick tension within it is anyone’s guess. 

The walk to the throne room is as gorgeous as always – and like always, Annabeth always sees places where she could build something more, something better, something lasting. _Hubris_ , she reminds herself. _Watch yourself, Chase_. 

Chiron, divested of his wheelchair, pushes the doors open to the pavilion, to the throne room of the gods, and Annabeth meets her mother’s eyes from across the room. 

They share the same stormy grey eyes, the same intensity – but there is not familiarity in these eyes. Annabeth has spent her entire life watching them look back at her through the mirror, but her mother’s eyes do not hold that same spark of mortality that hers do. 

Across the room – all the gods are there. Demeter, a wreath of wheat perched in her similarly colored hair, Hera with her cold blue eyes, hair braided into a bun, Artemis, the size of a twelve-year-old girl, crimson hair like a waterfall of blood down one dark, slender shoulder. Aphrodite, blonde haired and blue eyed for the day, perched between Hephaestus – with soot in his beard, tinkering with some metal in his hands – and Ares – aviators perched in dark, dark hair, eyes red as blood, and beside them, Apollo and Hermes in discussion. Annabeth’s eyes sweep through the whole lot of them – all eleven Olympians, sans Mr. D. 

Her eyes stutter and stop at Poseidon. The elder god looks distraught, and Annabeth thinks this is the first time she’s ever seen the normally cheerful sea god without his loud Hawaiian shirts. Instead, the god is clad in solemn grays and mourning black, tourist’s attire traded in for a sensible jacket and boots made for travelling. His trident is abandoned in the cup holder of his fisherman’s throne, hands instead preoccupied with what looks to be a small, silver ring. He looks almost…mortal like this, and a part of Annabeth wonders what could have brought one of the eldest gods to such a state. 

Zeus clears his throat, and calls the meeting to attention. “It has come to my attention that we have a…breach in the Oath,” he rumbles, and all eyes follow his to Poseidon’s lackadaisical figure, hunched over in his throne. “We have called you here so that we might call a quest to rectify Poseidon’s…mistake.” 

The sea god finally looks up at that, and Annabeth unconsciously takes a step back – the room feels charged now, electricity crackling between the two gods. “Watch yourself, _little brother_ , lest you start fights you cannot win,” Poseidon spits, and it sounds like pure venom. “My son is not a _mistake_ , and this is not something we are _rectifying_!” He’s yelling now, and across the room, all the gods look alarmed. 

Poseidon stops and looks over at their motley group of teenagers, before he breathes out, a choked release of air, and looks away from them, falling backwards into his throne. “I – We have called you all here for a reason,” he begins, worrying the ring between his fingers once more. “The Great Prophecy has begun.” 

A hush falls over their crowd. Every demigod knows of the Great Prophecy, knows that it’s the reason why there hasn’t – shouldn’t have been – any children of the Big Three born since the last World War. 

“Who’s the child, then?” Lee Fletcher asks – and he’s either the bravest, or the most reckless amongst them. 

“My son,” Poseidon answers, and his eyes look misty. “Perseus Jackson.” 

It’s such a _Greek_ name that Annabeth can’t help but want to laugh. But the look on Poseidon’s face kills that small giggle before it even forms in her throat – he looks _wrecked_ , haggard and tired as he holds a small scrap of silver between his fingers like it’s his last lifeline amidst a raging storm. 

“He’s been missing for four years,” the god continues, and his eyes are still trained on that slip of silver, cradled between his hands. “But he is needed now.” 

Annabeth looks at Poseidon, and a pang like jealousy runs through her – it’s terrible, a horrible thing to be jealous of; this boy, Perseus, has been missing from his family for four years now, and all they know is that he’s _alive_ , but Gods know what he’s been through, and they’re only really searching for him now because he’s of use to them. But still, the clear worry that has turned Poseidon into this worried, tired shell of a man sends jealousy running down every vertebra of Annabeth’s spine, as she desperately wishes that her father had just once shown this sort of concern for her. 

Apollo clears his throat, but his grin is muted. “So, speak to my Oracle when you head back to Camp,” he crosses his legs and leans forwards, chin propped on one hand. “She’ll tell you who to send of this quest and,” Apollo looks over at Poseidon. “Uncle P, could I have that ring?” 

Poseidon holds the ring for a moment, mutely looking down at the silver sheen, before tossing it over, into Apollo’s waiting hands. The sun god murmurs a few words, and within them, Annabeth thinks she can hear a prayer to Hecate, and the ring glows with a warm golden light for a scant moment. 

“Here.” Apollo descends from his throne, shrinking to roughly Lee Fletcher’s height, and hands the ring off to Chiron, strangely delicate in his handling. “Perseus Jackson’s location is hidden from even my eyes,” he says, and a frown furrows his brow, “but his spirit isn’t. It’s been wandering around – he’s even been with Morpheus for a bit – so, I’ve left a… _calling card_ of sorts in the ring.” He shakes his head, letting out a harsh breath. “Powerful magic on that small thing, there. We’re messing with something that might be older than even the Gaia and the Giants – makes me a _little_ nervous.” 

Apollo shakes his head. “Anyways, I figured it might not be so bad to…get in touch with the kid from time to time. It’s going to be jarring, waking up to a whole new world after spending so much time alone.” He claps his hands together. “Basically, just slide your finger across the bottom of the ring, and call his name. Names have power, after all – it’ll call him straight to you.” 

Chiron eyes the ring in his hand, and tucks it away, into the breast pocket of his button down. “Thank you, Lord Apollo.” 

The god grins, blinding as the sun. “Nah, don’t worry about it. S’important, right? We all gotta do our part.” And, with a wave of his hands, he sends them away.   
But – briefly, and so softly, that Annabeth could swear it nothing more than the wind rushing in her ears, she thinks she can hear Poseidon utter a quiet prayer – _bring him home to me, safe. Please. ___

* * *

Spending time in the Realm of the Dead is Percy’s favorite thing to do. He loves it, the fragrant marigold petals lining the floors, colorful streamers and beautiful floats lining the streets. It’s an oft thought of childhood memory, of Mamãe taking him by the hand and leading him through East Harlem, where the Mexicans celebrate _Finados_ a day earlier, but it stands for the same meanings. He remembers the syrupy sweetness of hibiscus tea, and the sugary taste of _pan de Muertos_ bought from vendors in the street. He remembers how the sugar always stuck to his fingers and face when he was a child, and he remembers how the sensation had nearly faded into nothing after so many years spent in boarding school during _Finados._

“Back again, huh.” Vovô is behind him again, old hands clasped behind his back. A part of Percy wonders about the presence of a Norwegian man in an afterlife meant for those of Latin America, but he also remembers Vovô telling him about growing up in Brazil, along the banks of the Rio de Janiero, an odd _estrangiero_ boy, who’d always been a little out of place. Like a nail that wouldn’t be beaten into the wood. 

“Yep,” Percy replies, twisting around to smile at Vovô. “I like it here,” he says simply, and kicks up a spray of loose marigold petals, as if trying to prove a point.   
“Just like your mother,” Vovô says, and he sounds gruffly fond. “You ever go visit her?” 

Percy smiles – a grim, sad twist of one; more of a mockery than anything else – and shakes his head. “The Old Ones won’t let me.” He fingers the fraying stitch of the sachet Mamãe had given him before…before the sleep and the travel, and the hands over him like adoring crowds, and sighs. “They’re sorry, of course, but…I’m not allowed to visit.” 

Vovô purses his lips and shakes his head sadly. Percy feels the same way – he misses his mother, and the ache of it stays with him, constant and never ending. But the Old Ones are insistent, and Percy is just a _spirit._ He hates it, this feeling of powerlessness. Like he’s a damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued – Percy _hates_ waiting. He hates not standing on his own damn feet and moving forwards, even if he has to kick down the door to do so. 

“Well.” Vovô cracks his knuckles, rotating his neck around. He’s dead, and doesn’t really have to do that, but Percy finds it amusing, how these little habits cling to the dead as they do in life. “Come on, kid. You’re here. Might as well brush up on a bit more Algebra, right?” 

And there’s that. Vovô is – was – a _math teacher_. And while Percy loves him, he absolutely _hates_ math. Sure, he’s sixteen years old, but even sixteen year olds have their faults – especially when they’ve been suspended in spirit limbo for four years. 

“Do we have to?” Percy asks, trekking through the marigold petals. The swirl around him, dancing with the aid of some unseen and unfelt wind, as around them, the dead dance to eternal music. 

Vovô sighs, and looks vaguely like he wishes he had a cigarette. “Kid, sometimes there are things in life that are necessary. No matter _how_ much you hate them. Now, come on. We’ll play fútbol after math.” 

The marigold petals mask their leaving, but as Percy goes to follow Vovô further into the Realm of the Dead, there’s a tugging sensation in his gut, this odd swooping sensation, like the floor has just vanished from beneath him – and he’s gone. 

The marigold petals swirl, intricate patterns made by invisible breezes in the place where he’d once stood. In the Realm of the Dead, the music plays on, and the dead celebrate eternally, for the lives they lived.

* * *

Annabeth is the last one to go up the stairs, into the attic that the Oracle calls home. It’s only fair, she reasons – she’s the youngest of the head campers, and while that’s normally a source of well-earned pride to her, today it vexes her, having to wait and watch as cabin leader after cabin leader comes down the stairs, having gotten no reaction from the Oracle. 

Beneath her feet, the wood is full of splinters, little slices of wood piercing the rubber soles of her sneakers. The ladder creaks nosily, and when it rocks as she climbs, her hand shoots out to the railing – ultimately, a poor decision, Annabeth thinks, picking splinters from the palm of her hand. 

The attic is crowded – cramped and cluttered, and _certainly_ far cry from a remote cave in some holy area in Greece, or a gleaming marble temple, flocked to by thousands upon thousands of pilgrims seeking some godly knowledge. But the Oracle isn’t what she once was either. No virgin priestess is seated amongst this collection of knickknacks and odd quest trophies. 

Annabeth turns a corner, and there she is. The mighty Oracle, now nothing more than a withered husk in an ugly, faded tie dye dress – another reminder that _nothing_ is permanent. Annabeth has never met a living Oracle, has never known the woman this mummy was, but she stares into it’s fathomless, unseeing eyes and asks. 

“Where is the lost son?” 

Those eyes, beetle-shell black, begin to glow an eerie, poisonous green, and around Annabeth, the attic creaks as the Oracle turns its head to look at her. Smoke pours from the Oracle’s unhinging mouth, jaw held together by magic and weathered, leathery skin. “ _Approach, daughter of Athena, and listen to Our answer to your query._ ” 

Annabeth steps forwards, hands balled into fists at her side. She steels herself, prays for bravery that she feels is leaving her faster than the thick smoke is pouring from the Oracle’s mouth. “I need to find the lost son – Perseus Jackson,” she repeats. “All of Olympus is depending on it.” 

The Oracle almost seems to sigh, glowing eyes dimming as it begins to speak. “ _To seek the son of Poseidon, travel to the isle of blessings and seek the mother, maiden and crone. Find the one amongst the many, the spirit amongst the dead beneath the light of the waning moon. You will find the son and see him safely returned; but caution, for you will fail to save who was lost, in the end_.” 

The smoke begins to fade, and Annabeth desperately scrabbles for answers amongst the mysticism. “Wait – no, how can I fail to save who was lost if we find him? You have to tell me!” She reaches out, as if to grab the mummy’s withered arm, but the Oracle is gone. 

Annabeth is alone in the attic. The floorboards creak beneath her feet, and the smoke is gone. All that’s left is the clutter of old, meaningless quest trophies and the corpse of a girl who lived and died for the future. 

But Annabeth is a realist, pragmatic and no longer a child, so she grips the leather cord of beads around her neck and breathes. She has a quest now – and more importantly, a missing son to find. She turns on her heel and climbs back down the stairs, to the ping-pong room turned council room. 

“Well?” Chiron asks, worry wrinkling the space between his eyebrows. “Have you gotten a prophecy?”

“Yeah,” Annabeth says, and sits down next to Katie Gardner. “To seek the son of Poseidon, travel to the isle of blessings and seek the mother, maiden and crone. Find the one amongst the many, the spirit amongst the dead beneath the light of the waning moon. You will find the son and see him safely returned; but caution, for you will fail to save who was lost, in the end.” 

She recites it from memory and wonders how she’ll ever manage to forget it – the words are burned into her mind, it seems. There is something haunting about this quest, something that sets all the hairs of the back of Annabeth’s neck standing. 

“The mother, maiden and crone, huh?” Travis Stoll bites on his nail, across the table, frowning. “That almost sounds familiar…hey, Connor, do we have anyone in the Hermes cabin who would know about that?” 

Connor props his chin up with one hand and hums, contemplating. “Maybe ask Lou Ellen?” He suggests. “Isn’t her godly mother Hecate?” He shrugs and goes back to flicking folded pieces of loose leaf across the ping pong table – Annabeth watches as a scrap gets stuck in Selina Beauregard’s hair. 

So they go get Lou Ellen. The older girl slings her bow over her shoulder and nods. “Maiden, mother and crone. Those are Hecate’s three forms – the three paths of the crossroads. Why do you want to know?” She asks, confusion masked by a politely wary veneer. 

Annabeth shakes her head. “It’s…for a quest. I feel like I might know this already but – what is Hecate the goddess of?” 

Lou Ellen runs a hand through her shock of short white-blonde hair, and laughs. “Crossroads, Annabeth Chase,” she says, and her smile turns to something more feral. “Hecate is a Titaness, Annabeth. One of magic older than the gods themselves.” 

Apprehension turns to lead in Annabeth’s stomach. “I – thanks, Lou Ellen.” And watches as the older girl leaves the Big House, back to the archery range. 

“Well, it’s a place to start,” Chiron consoles her. “Here.” He pulls the ring – the small, gleamingly silver thing Poseidon had handed over on Olympus – from the breast pocket of his cardigan. “Perhaps, before we consult the goddess, we had best try and speak to Perseus himself.” 

Annabeth takes the ring from Chiron, cups it in her hands, and slowly, slides her thumb across the engraved runes along the bottom of the ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok quick terminology rundown: 
> 
> vovo is grandpa in portuguese. finados is the brazilian day of the dead, and its traditionally celebrated on the second, not the first. 
> 
> anyways!! this was a lot longer than i expected?? whoops. and i'm sorry for leaving on a cliffhanger but it was getting _long_. really. (a cookie to whomever can guess the "lost one" in the prophecy) 
> 
> anyways, comment/kudos/subscribe if you liked! 
> 
> **adios,** ren.

**Author's Note:**

> tadaa, prologue one is finished! prologue two should be up sometime next week; i'm aiming for weekly or bi monthly updates, depending on the muse & how many chapters i have stockpiled. seriously, this is going to be a _long_ one, i can feel it. 
> 
> drop me a review, kudos - tell me how you liked it? i'm also looking for someone to help with the portuguese so. if you speak portuguese, feel free to correct me/maybe dm me. 
> 
> find me on my [tumblr](shangyang.tumblr.com)!


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